


The Child Surprise

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Child Surprise AUs [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Gen, No Beta Reader We Die Like Retired Witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: It’s not Geralt who Ciri finds after fleeing Cintra, it’s Jaskier.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Child Surprise AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593625
Comments: 609
Kudos: 2264
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, witcher





	1. Chapter 1

“Here,” Jaskier smiled and placed the plate in front of the girl. “Eat up.”

Judging by what the innkeeper had said, and the looks she’d given him, she thought Jaskier was trying to get the poor child into his bed. What aggravated him most, was that she hadn’t tried to stop him.

But regardless of what people thought, Jaskier wasn’t a lecher. He’d seen the girl, alone, and clearly scared, and thought she deserved to have a good meal.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I heard your song-” She took another bite, then looked up. “You know him?” she asked suddenly. “You know Geralt of Rivia?”

Jaskier scowled. “Unfortunately,” he said. It was hard not to be irritated, even after yelling at him and sending him away, people were still far more interested in Geralt than they were in Jaskier. It wasn't fair at all. 

“I need to find him,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Please. I- I-”

“You don’t want to find him,” Jaskier promised. “He’s a whoreson and-”

“Please!” There were tears gleaming in her eyes.

“Shhh,” Jaskier whispered, leaning across the table to pat her hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, tell me what I can-”

“You can take me to him.” Then, as though it were an afterthought, she added, “Please.” 

“Why?” He studied her, cursing his human weaknesses. No doubt Geralt would already have worked out what she wanted, but all he could figure, was that she looked vaguely familiar and very dirty. “What you need,” he told her. “Is a warm meal, a bath, and a bed.” The last thing he wanted to do was see Geralt again, and he could only imagine how pissed the Witcher would be if he showed up again. Maybe if Geralt had a few years to cool off first, but this soon? No. Jaskier liked having all his appendages attached and unbruised. 

The girl looked into her soup, a frown on her face. “He claimed the right of surprise.”

_The Child Surprise._ For a moment, he could only stutter. When he finally found words again, he managed, “The Child Surprise. That makes you-”

She clamped her hand over his mouth. “Fiona,” she said. “That makes me Fiona.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier had convinced her to stay in the inn for the night, to eat, bathe, and rest. Starting out in the dark wasn’t only taxing, it was also incredibly dangerous. And he didn’t even know where to start looking.

Ciri pulled a screen in front of the tub, Jaskier helped her to position it so that she could bathe in peace, then he hurried for the door. “I’m going to find you clothes,” he said. “I have a key to the room, do not open it for anyone.”

“I can’t pay you.” Her head appeared around the corner of the screen, staring at Jaskier with wide, frightened eyes. “I have no money, but once I go home-”

“Princess-”

“I can give you land or a title or-”

_Tempting_ , Jaskier thought, but he shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “Except-” he grinned, winking “-I would like to tell your story, once you’re no longer in hiding. Imagine how grand it will be!”

She almost smiled, nodded, then ducked behind the screen again as Jaskier slipped from the room to find her something less filthy - and less fancy - to wear.

He took her shirt and pants with him, handing it to the local shopkeeper and saying, “I need clothes in this size. Or something close.”

She managed to find him something that was close to Ciri’s size, but warmer, more durable, and less rich, and offered to trade it for what he’d brought. He considered it, but then found himself afraid that someone might wonder where she’d gotten it. Instead, he handed her a few coins. Then he gave her a few more, for her silence.

“The herbalist next door can give you a contraceptive potion,” she said, tucking away the coins.

Jaskier opened his mouth to defend himself, to assure her - and everyone else - that he was not going to have sex with a child. But then he clamped his mouth shut.

A story. He needed a story.

This one might be disgusting, but it would make people question less why he was dragging a pretty girl around. “Thank you,” he said. To complete the illusion, he stopped at the apothecary and - despite the growing feeling of disgust in his stomach - purchased the herbs (which he quickly dumped down the nearest ditch).

He knocked on the door to the room before he entered. “It’s only me,” he called softly.

Ciri was still in the tub, he covered his eyes as he stepped around the tub to set her new clothes beside her. “I- well, I have some explaining to do.”

“What?”

He sat on the ground on the other side of the screen, rubbing his hands through his hair. “I- oh, well- Ciri, I swear on my lute, on my mother’s grave- well, not her grave, she’s alive- on my voice, on every god and goddess-”

“Jaskier.”

“I will never, ever harm you. I promise.”

“Jaskier?” her voice was suddenly frightened, uncertain.

“People will talk, you are clearly not related to me, and people, well, people will talk-”

“You told them we’re married?”

“I let them believe whatever they wanted to believe, but I think that’s the gist of it, yes.” 

The water in the tub splashed as Ciri shifted. “That’s not terrible,” she said finally.

After a while, the girl came out from behind the screen, and Jaskier smiled up at her, his eyes widening slightly. “You look just like your mother,” he said.

“I know.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I- what?” Ciri seemed offended, her eyes flashing. “Why is that terrible- my mother was beautiful!”

Jaskier pulled at his hair, fretting. “You’re very distinct,” he said after a brief pause. “If people see you, they, well, they might talk. You’re no peasant, Ciri- er, Fiona.”

“Do you have any ink?”

“Ink?” Jaskier spluttered. “You- you’re the Lion Cub, we can’t dye- you have blonde hair, like a lion's mane-”

“I’m not going to be killed over my hair!”

He sighed, falling silent. “Yes,” he said finally, “I have ink.”

* * *

Ciri had been right - of course, Jaskier should know better than to argue with women in her family - and with her hair dyed black she was almost unrecognizable.

“Ah, much better,” he said brightly, sitting down his quill and tilting his head. “That should do nicely.”

She only nodded, leaning over the paper to read what he’d been writing. Her eyes widened. “Can you afford that?” she asked.

“Well, no,” he said, “but I’m not planning to pay it.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no monster, I just need to lure in Geralt.” He was rather proud of the plan, which was to convince Geralt to come to them by putting out a large contract on a monster. He could only hope that the Witcher was near enough to hear about it.

“Will it work?”

“Well, it better, because I don’t know how else to find him.”

“Could a sorceress track him?”

“What?” Jaskier asked abruptly. “Who told you about-” Ciri’s face was blank, clearly it had just been a general suggestion, not something that involved Yennifer of Yengerberg “-No, never, I suppose they could, but this is far easier. With the added benefit of not having to talk to a sorceress.”

“You don’t like Sorceresses?”

“There’s one in particular that I can’t stand and she happens to be Geralt’s- well, fuck, I don’t know what she is. And don’t tell him I swore in front of you.”

She grinned.

* * *

The next morning they headed out together, passing out copies of the Contract to passing travelers. Jaskier put on a show of sobbing that his young friend’s home had been destroyed and they absolutely needed a Witcher.

Ciri, who couldn’t cry on command, only looked at the bard with a slightly horrified face when he started his theatrics.

“Do you want to find Geralt or not?” he asked as the merchant - who had been so moved by Jaskier’s show he’d given Ciri an apple - rode off.

“This is the only way?”

“Well, we could try your way, which is to start walking with no destination in mind and pray that the gods - who Geralt doesn’t even believe in - will look on us kindly.”

“Or we could ask if anyone’s seen him.”

“That,” Jaskier said, “is how you draw far too much attention to yourself.”

“And sobbing in the middle of the street is subtle?”

“No. It’s brilliant.”

She seemed unconvinced.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days passed, and there was no sign of Geralt. Jaskier’s funds were running low, so he continued his singing in the evenings, staying up long after Ciri had gone to bed. She enjoyed his songs, listening intently to his every word, but she had clearly lived a life where she got a full night’s sleep every evening.

Before he sang, they would sit in a corner booth and eat, often sharing one meal between them, both of them too stressed to do much besides pick at their food. And - although he’d never tell it to Ciri - it was far cheaper not to order a second meal, even if Jaskier was a bit hungry some nights.

She sat beside him, picking numbly at the plate, and he waited for her to finish, so he could scoop up the rest and finish it when she wasn’t looking. “It’s not working,” she whispered. “He’s not coming.”

“Tomorrow we’ll- we’ll think of something. There’s no point in worrying tonight.”

She nodded slowly, then pushed the plate away.

Jaskier tried not to look too desperate as he dug into it.

His skin prickled.

The bard looked up uncomfortably, at a group of men who had just entered through the main door. They were staring at Ciri. It wasn’t recognition that clouded their faces, but something that Jaskier knew far too well: lust.

Damn it.

“Cir- Fiona,” he whispered, reaching to wrap his arm around her side. “Do you trust me?”

She turned her head slowly, meeting his eyes and giving a small nod.

“Sit on my lap,” he said. She shifted to sit on him obediently, hanging her head and letting her frizzy hair fall into her eyes. Jaskier clung to her, rubbing her arm with his hand.

“Why are they looking at me?”

“I think- I hope - that they just think you’re pretty,” Jaskier replied softly.

“What if they-”

“Run,” he whispered. “Run as fast as you can, don’t look back.”

“What about-”

His heart hammered in his chest, and he hoped she couldn’t hear it. “I’ll be fine,” he lied. “Geralt taught me to fight.” He’d tried, but Jaskier could barely do better than scream and wave a sword around. But it would buy her time, which was all that mattered.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Jaskier-”

“If your life is in danger, you leave me,” he said again. “It’s not me they want.”

Suddenly she laid her head on his chest, closing her eyes. Her breathing quickened, shoulders shaking, and it didn’t take a genius to realize she was fighting tears. “Shhh,” he whispered frantically. “Shhhh, don’t cry. It won’t come to that- most likely- so please, don’t cry-”

She nodded, hiccuping softly as she tried not to cry. Jaskier resumed his eating, making a point not to lick his fingers between each bite.

Then another chill ran up his spine, and he nearly jumped out of his chair.

“Jaskier,” growled a familiar voice in his ear. “That’s a _child_ you’re fondling.”

The bard sat up, a smile spreading over his face. “Geralt!” he cried. Then his face fell. “Damn it, don’t you trust me?!”

* * *

He wasn’t a fool. He knew Jaskier wasn’t doing anything lewd with a child, he just wanted to see the look on Jaskier’s face at the accusation.

Then he saw the girl’s face as she turned to look at him, her eyes widening slightly. “Cir-”

“Fiona!” Jaskier said, somewhat louder than necessary. “This is Fiona, and I have - a fire - with my - pants- upstairs- we should go put it out! Yes! Let’s put out the fire!” He stood so quickly he nearly knocked the girl - it couldn’t be Ciri, surely not - to the ground, then drug them both upstairs.

Once in the room, Jaskier slammed the door, leaning against it and bolting it. “Geralt that’s her, that’s the Child of Surprise - fuck, I don’t know - there’s no fire, actually. What am I saying, of course, there's no fire - she’s a princess, did you know that? Fuck-”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell him you said _fuck_ in front of me,” Ciri said, almost grinning.

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve said in front of her. Where did you- how-” Before he could process another word, he pulled both of them into his arms, nearly crushing them.

Ciri clung to him, twisting her arms around his neck and nearly sobbing, Jaskier sat perfectly still, as though in shock from the touch. “I’m hallucinating,” the bard said finally. “Either that or you’ve gone mad. Geralt of Rivia is hugging people! Quick! Someone, call the chroniclers-”

“Oh shut up,” Geralt growled. He let go of them, and although Jaskier stepped back willingly enough, Ciri remained firmly attached to his neck, clinging as though he was her lifeline. “What happened?”

“She found me,” Jaskier said. “I didn’t know where to find you, so I wrote that contract-”

“That was you?” Geralt relaxed, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I knew it was fake, but I thought it must have been a trap, so when I saw Ciri-”

“Oh,” Jaskier frowned. “Was it that bad?”

“Seven Hundred Orens for a couple of Drowners?” Geralt asked, shaking his head. “Jaskier, you’re on the wrong side of the continent to be paying people in Orens, and a Drowner is a fraction of that price!”

“I told you,” mumbled Ciri.

“No, you didn’t! No one tells me anything,” Jaskier grumbled.

An uncomfortable feeling - it might be guilt, but he’d prefer to blame it on the fish he had for supper - welled in Geralt’s chest. “Ciri,” he said softly, “Could I have two minutes with Jaskier?”

They both seemed surprised by the request, but it was Jaskier who tried to protest. “We can’t separate, what if-”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I don’t mind. I really don’t. Truly.”

“Stay here,” Geralt told Ciri. “I’m going to check on Roach.”

“That’s his horse, not an actual cockroach, although, why he insists on- hey!” As Jaskier had been explaining the finer points of Geralt’s naming abilities, the Witcher had grabbed the back of his shirt and was dragging him out the door.

“I’ll hear you if you scream,” Geralt promised.

“The window overlooks the stable. Just jump,” Jaskier said. “I’ll catch you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Geralt snorted, remembering all the times Jaskier had tripped over his own two feet. 

They walked to the stable in silence, stopping in front of Roach’s stall and staring at the mare. “She seems well,” Jaskier said.

“She is.”

The bard nodded. “Are you well, Roach?”

The mare snorted.

“She agrees,” Geralt said. “Jaskier I- I was angry at myself and I blamed- I said things that I shouldn’t have-”

“You did,” Jaskier agreed. “I’ve still not forgiven you for that bit about my fillingless pie-” 

“Jaskier!” Geralt grabbed him, turning him so that they were forced to face one another. “I am trying to apologize, damn it!”

“Then say it.”

“Say what?” he growled.

“Don’t beat around the bush!” Jaskier snapped, shoving Geralt’s hand away. “If you’re really sorry, you’d just say-”

“Damn it, Jaskier, I’m sorry!”

Jaskier froze, blinking. Then he nodded slowly. “I-”

Roach snorted loudly. “I think she’s telling us that our two minutes are over,” Jaskier said.

“Do you forgive me?” He didn’t know what he’d do if Jaskier said no, but that was a hurdle he’d have to cross if it emerged.

“Have you got food?” Jaskier asked suddenly. “I’ve ravenous Geralt- simply ravenous- just, ah, don’t tell Ciri, she thinks I don’t eat much and-”

“You’ve been starving yourself?” Geralt asked sharply. He turned to run a quick glance over the bard, making certain that everything was as it should be.

“Ah, no?”

Geralt shook his head, pulling his coin pouch from his pocket and tossing it to Jaskier. “Bring enough for all of us,” he said.

Jaskier grinned, hurrying toward the stable door. Then he stopped, turned, and said, “I forgive you, but only because you’re buying dinner.”

Geralt shook his head, then looked up at the window above them. He took a deep breath. “Well,” he said to Roach. “I’ve avoided my destiny long enough, haven’t I?”


	4. Chapter 4

Ciri was sitting on the bed when he entered, her knees drawn to her chest. A quick sweep of the room revealed other secrets - such as the fact that Jaskier had been sleeping on the floor, letting Ciri have the bed. But he forced himself back to the subject at hand.

“Cirilla,” he said softly.

She looked up, her face stained with tears. “She’s gone,” she whispered. “My grandmother-”

“I know,” he whispered. “Princess, if I could have saved her-”

“Ciri,” she said. “Don’t call me princess- and, I don’t want to talk about her.”

Geralt sat beside her slowly, resting one hand on her shoulder. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing.” She didn’t brush his hand away, but nor did she lean into him as she had for Jaskier. He told himself that the feeling in his gut wasn’t jealously.

“Ciri, I’ll keep you safe, I swear-”

She nodded, sniffling and pulling her knees into her chest.

“What can I- What do you need?”

She could only shrug. “I have to go back,” she whispered.

“We can’t rush,” he said. “Ciri, if we go back now-”

“They want me! Nilfgard!! I don’t know why!”

“Your power, you’ve seen it?”

“I screamed apart a rock wall,” she whispered.

Geralt nodded. “That’s why they want you, they must have heard what happened at your mother’s betrothal-”

“If I can’t go home, where-”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll keep you safe.”

He glanced outside, where snow was drifting lazily past the window. It was late in the year to make the trek through the mountains, but, if he had to, he could. For Ciri, he would. “I know where we can go.”

* * *

Jaskier kicked the door to their room. “Let me in, Geralt! I’m going to drop something!” He’d probably bought more food than he should have, but he was hungry, damn it, and most of it they could save and eat later if they had to.

To his surprise, Geralt didn’t say a word about his purchases when he opened the door, and he didn’t demand the coin pouch from him, instead taking the tray of food and carrying it for him, only taking the pouch when Jaskier offered it.

Ciri was curled on the bed, wrapped in her blue cloak, her eyes shining. “Are you hungry?” Jaskier asked cheerfully.

“You lied,” she accused. “You said you weren’t hungry-”

“What did you tell her?” he hissed to Geralt, but the Witcher shook his head.

“I don’t want your things!” she sobbed. “They’re yours!”

“Ciri,” Jaskier said gently, holding out his hands to placate her, “What I give, I give freely. What is mine is yours- I truly did not mind- please- don't cry, really, don't- Geralt's turning very pale-”

She shook her head, sniffling softly. “My boots were stolen from a halfling,” she sniffed. “And I didn’t stop it, I just let her- I-” she dissolved into tears, and to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt wrapped an arm around her.

“It’s alright Ciri,” he said, his voice far more soothing than Jaskier had realized he could manage.

“You heard him,” Jaskier said brightly. “And it’s nothing, truly, my father’s a lord of sorts, so I’ve got enough to share!” 

Geralt gave him a look that clearly said, ‘ _your father doesn’t give you shit and I know it_ ,’ but the Witcher said nothing out loud. Jaskier shrugged, sitting down and digging into his meal. 

Finally, once Ciri’s fears seemed to have been soothed, Jaskier asked, “Now what?” His companions both looked at him. “We can’t stay here! I mean-” he waved his hands, wishing he could say, _‘we can’t afford the inn forever and we can’t make a princess sleep in a cave.’_

“We’ll go to Kaer Morhen for the winter at least,” Geralt said finally. “Ciri will be safe there.”

“Ah,” Jaskier smiled, although a small hole seemed to open in his chest. “Well, then, I suppose this is where I say farewell. And, oh - I hate farewells- don't be offended if I simply say nothing, I'll just slip away-”

“Why do you have to leave?” Ciri asked, looking up at Jaskier with a shocked expression. She turned to Geralt with pleading eyes. “Why can’t he come?”

The bard had to admit that Ciri’s pleas on his behalf made him feel a bit better inside. “Kaer Morhen is the Witcher School,” Jaskier explained. “They’re not keen on outsiders-” Geralt spent most winters at the school, leaving Jaskier alone with his music.

“I only said that because you’d hate Kaer Morhen,” Geralt grumbled.

“What?!”

“Jaskier you’re a crowd-pleaser, a showoff - a-”

“Voyeurist?” offered Ciri.

“Ah-” Jaskier winced, “That word might not mean what you think- Where did you even hear-”

“What I”m trying to say,” Geralt interrupted, “Is that there are four people in Kaer Morhen. You’d hate it.”

“Or perhaps it would be the creative break I need!” Jaskier threw out his arms grandly. “Come now, Geralt, when is the last time I was able to take a break and really focus on my music? It's perfect- and to meet other Witchers? Why the stories they can tell-” He certainly wouldn’t mind getting gossip on Geralt (which, admittedly, might be another reason he’d never been invited).

“Don’t make me regret inviting you,” Geralt muttered.

“The others-” Ciri began. “Are you certain-”

“Vesemir won’t mind,” Geralt promised. “And if Eskel and Lambert cause any trouble, I’ll geld them.”

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “I thought you gelded horses, not-”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Jaskier said quickly. “It’s not the same thing at all, it’s an old Witcher saying, that- ah, he will beat them in a- ah, a horse race! And-”

“It means I’ll cut off their balls,” Geralt said, shaking his head at Jaskier.

“Geralt!”


	5. Chapter 5

They started for Kaer Morhen the next day. It was already later than Geralt usually started north, but they could make it. If they hurried.

Ciri sat on Roach with their things strapped to the saddle while Jaskier and Geralt walked.

“Are you cold?” Jaskier asked. Ciri shook her head, but it was a clear lie, she was shivering, even with her cloak and layers of clothes. Before Jaskier could remove his jacket, which he’d already started to do, Geralt wrapped his black cloak around her shoulders.

“I don’t-”

“Please,” Geralt said. “I want you to have it.”

“Witcher’s don’t get cold, not like we do,” Jaskier supplied, and, coming from his mouth, she seemed to believe it.

Geralt gave the bard a nod of thanks.

He pushed them hard, traveling as far as they could each day, often waking with the sun and not stopping until well into the night. Geralt and Roach were used to it, even if the horse seemed mildly annoyed. Ciri and Jaskier, however, were miserable.

On the third day, Jaskier developed a limp, although he did his best to hide it. By the evening of the fourth day, he could barely walk.

“It’s just my shoes,” he said that evening, flopping beside the fire. “They’re not made for-”

Geralt ripped off his boot, then his sock. “Your boots are giving you blisters.”

That was a nice word for it. In truth, his shoes - made for fashion, not sense -had shredded his feet, leaving red skin and welts. Blood seeped from a few of the worst blisters.

“I can walk,” Ciri offered.

“Oh, no princess-” Jaskier began, shaking his head.

“Ciri,” she corrected again.

“You can take turns,” Geralt said firmly.

That night, when the embers of their fire had nearly burned out, and Jaskier and Ciri were asleep, curled against one another like lambs, Geralt counted the coins in his pouch. He’d hoped - stupidly because he’d been too busy traveling to and from Cintra to take contracts - that he’d be able to purchase another horse, or even a pack mule.

But, unless he found a truly desperate seller, that was out of the question.

Instead, in the next town they passed through, he tossed Jaskier the pouch and ordered him to find a cobbler. “I can’t have you slowing me down,” he said by way of explanation.

But even with Jaskier’s new boots and Ciri wearing Geralt’s cloak, they were clearly suffering.

Jaskier still had a limp, and both of them developed saddle sores, although the bard had lotion - because of course, he did - that he used on his fingers to prevent his lute strings from causing callouses. He shared it willingly with Ciri, and when that ran out, Geralt purchased the cheapest oil he could find. It was meant for cooking, but it would have to do.

The further north they traveled, the more miserable they both became, although neither one said anything out loud. Geralt used the last of his coin to buy a thick woolen blanket, which could wrap around whichever of them was riding, while the one walking wore Geralt’s cloak.

At night they huddled together, under the large blanket, with Ciri between Jaskier and Geralt, as close to the embers of their fire as they dared.

It was a stark reminder that the winter was pressing closer with no mercy for the travelers.

The Witcher felt a bit of guilt every time he pushed them to keep traveling after they wanted to stop, or woke them when they still wanted rest. Somedays he had Jaskier ride the whole day, carrying Ciri on his back when she tired. But it wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be enough.

Even Roach seemed to be growing to hate him, no longer nickering warmly when he patted her neck.

He promised her oats and a long winter of rest, but she only shook her head and pranced to Ciri, letting the girl scratch her forehead.

* * *

A howl ripped through the woods.

Then another.

And another.

 _It’s only wolves_ , Geralt told himself. _Be glad it’s only wolves_. Their journey had been quiet and peaceful so far, but it seemed as though their luck had run out.

“Geralt-“ Jaskier began.

“Get on Roach,” he said softly.

“What-”

Before Jaskier could ask any more questions Geralt grabbed him and shoved him onto the horse’s back behind Ciri. “Listen,” he said, grabbing the bard’s collar, forcing him to meet his eyes. “It’s most likely only wolves, but I’ll check-”

“Geralt-”

“Follow the road north. Smaller roads will branch off, but ignore them. At every crossroad, take the widest path. If you get lost, there’s a map in my saddlebag-”

“Geralt-”

“There is a letter there for Vesemir. Give it to him, and he will help you.”

“We aren’t leaving you!” Ciri gasped.

He grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently. “I’ll kill the wolves and meet up with you,” he promised gently. “I’m only taking precautions.” He’d meant to tell them about the map and letter earlier - he’d written it before they left the inn, just in case - but he hadn’t wanted to frighten either of them.

A smack on Roach’s flank made her hurry away, ignoring the protests of her riders.

Then Geralt grabbed his sword - the steel, not the silver - and went to meet the wolves.

Winter hadn’t been kind to them either, it seemed, and they were hungry enough to attack him when he found them. He slaughtered them easily, not even breaking a sweat.

The last wolf fell to the ground, it’s head nearly severed from its neck. But he still felt uneasy. “There were more,” he growled, breaking into a run back toward the road.

He found Roach’s tracks easily enough, following them until he saw the horse, moving down the road at a quick pace.

But there was only one rider on her back.

“Ciri!” He raced to Roach’s side, grabbing the girl’s hands and squeezing them. For a moment, he was overcome with relief to see her alive. Then the panic set in. “Where the fuck’s Jaskier?”

She was crying. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but her face was stained with tears, freezing to her cheeks quickly. “He- he told me to run-”

“Ciri-” He was going to kill the self-sacrificing idiot when he got his hands on him.

She pointed into the woods. “The wolves- they chased him.”

His blood ran cold. “Listen to me,” he said. “You can follow this road to Kaer Morhen. If anything happens- if I don’t catch you- the letter- Vesemir-”

“Geralt-”

“Go,” he said. “Jaskier and I will catch up to you. But if the wolves come back, start running and don’t look back.”

“I-”

“Stay with Roach,” was all he said, before racing back into the woods where she’d pointed.

It wasn’t hard to track Jaskier. Once he was in the woods he could hear him, shouting and screaming. “This way!” his voice called, “Over here you ugly brutes- I- AhhhH!”

Geralt swore and grabbed for his sword.

He found the bard, pinned against a cliff, holding his hands out in front of him, waving a knife as though that would keep back the snarling - and clearly starving - wolves. One hand was pressed against his shirt, where a red stain was blossoming.

Geralt swore. “Jaskier!”

“Geralt!”

He fought his way through the wolves, which abandoned Jaskier when they realized he was the bigger threat. “What were you thinking?” he demanded as the last wolf moaned and died.

“We were surrounded- I told Ciri to- ah, Geralt!”

Geralt hurried forward, grabbing Jaskier and slinging him over his shoulder before the bard could protest. “I’ve got you,” he growled.

“Geralt, it hurts, it really-”

“I know Jaskier!”

He followed his own footprints back to the path, where Ciri and Roach were walking slowly, the princess staring over her shoulder, still waiting for them. “Geralt! Jaskier!”

Without a word he grabbed Roach’s reins, struggling to balance both the horse and the bard, and pulled her to the side of the path, tying her to a tree. He laid Jaskier out on the snow, then dug through his saddlebags as Ciri jumped from the saddle. “Are they gone?”

“They’re dead,” Geralt growled.

“Is he-”

“He’s fine. Get his shirt off.” 

Jaskier screamed as Geralt poured a clear, bubbling liquid over the claw marks. The wolf had swiped both his arm and his side in one move by the looks of it, but fortunately, it seemed to be only flesh deep.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of veins in his arm and side, and blood flowed freely.

Once the wound was clean, Geralt bound it, using the few bandages he had. But it wasn’t going to be enough. Before he could decide to shred his own shirt, Ciri was holding out the cloak he’d given her. “Here,” she said.

“Rip it into strips.”

Together they bound the rest of his wounds, then wrapped him in what remained of the cloak, lifting him into the saddle. Geralt placed Ciri in front of him.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier whispered when Geralt looked at him. He’d been saying it over and over while they’d bandaged him, but the Witcher could tell it was a lie.

He grit his teeth, his mind made up. “If you ride hard, Kaer Morhen is only a day away-”

“Roach can’t carry all of us,” Ciri argued. “Not at that pace-”

“I know,” Geralt said.

“No!” she grabbed his hand, shaking her head frantically. “I just found you, I can’t- please!”

He squeezed her fingers. “Ciri, I need you to take Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. Give Vesemir the letter and tell him to send Eskel or Lambert to find me.” He could only hope that the Witchers were in the fortress. If for some reason they’d elected not to winter there- no, he wouldn’t consider it.

“But-”

“Ciri, Jaskier needs you.”

“I don’t-” began the bard.

“Jaskier, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: self-sacrifice is my job, damn it Jaskier!


	6. Chapter 6

Ciri was painfully aware of Jaskier’s grip, and how it loosened more and more the longer they rode. She grabbed his hands, wrapping them around her waist again, and then dug her heels into Roach’s side again.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed into the mare’s mane. “Just please, hurry.”

She waited for Jaskier to tell them not to hurry on his account, as he already had several times, but he remained silent.

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

The bard’s eyes were still open, but they were glazed, staring into the distance but not seeming to see it. “Jaskier?” she asked, squeezing his hand.

“Huh? Oh, Ciri,” he said, looking at her shoulder. “I- I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Tell Geralt I’m fine.”

“Roach hurry,” Ciri begged.

Kaer Morhen couldn’t be that much further, could it?

But before she could think any more, Jaskier went limp, slipping off Roach’s side and falling into the snow.

“No!” Without thinking - even though she knew without a doubt he would have told her to abandon him - Ciri jumped after him.

Roach paused, looked at them, snorted, and galloped away.

“No!” Ciri shouted. “Roach, come back!”

She knelt by Jaskier, rubbing the minstrel’s shoulder, trying to shake him awake. “Wake up,” she sobbed, smacking his chest. But he only moaned, his eyes closed.

All she could do was pull the itchy blanket around them and pray Geralt found them before the wolves.

* * *

The day felt impossibly long.

It wasn’t because he’d been walking in the snow for hours, but because he had no idea what had happened. Every time he walked around a bend in the trail he half expected to find Roach’s body, her riders ripped to shreds beside her, staining the snow red with their blood.

But thankfully, the snow remained white, and Roach’s prints were on the main trail. At least they hadn’t wandered off down a side road.

Night came and went, soon the sun was rising, but at least Roach’s footprints were still clear in the snow: Jaskier and Ciri were still on the right path.

As he was nearing the next curve, his Witcher senses picked up the sound of hooves and he hurried forward. “Who is it?” he called. “Vesemir?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Lambert, looking down at him with a scowl. “At least there’s something I’m good at.”

“Where’s Roach?” Geralt demanded, struggling through the deep snow toward Lambert.

“Not even a hello?” Lambert snorted. “And here I thought we were-”

“Damn it, Lambert, where are they!” He’d reached the other Witcher by then, grabbing him and pulling him from the saddle to give him a good shake.

“I don’t know!” Lambert shouted, struggling in Geralt’s grip. “Vesemir and Eskeltook them back to Kaer Morhen!”

“Are they well?”

Lambert stood, shaking himself off. “The last I saw of them, Vesemir was making a sling to carry the man, the girl was with Eskel.”

“The hell did you need a sling for?”

Lambert seemed uneasy, an unusual look on the prickly Witcher. “They didn’t reach the fortress.”

Geralt sucked in a breath. “They-“

“Your mare reached us, riderless. We came looking for you, but we found the two of them first. The girl told us about some letter, seemed to think we’d kill her for not having it-”

“And I’m certain you were a delight to be around!”

“Look! I’m only telling you what I saw!” Lambert ran a gloved hand through his hair with a sigh. “Vesemir’s going to try to help the man-”

“Jaskier-”

“But he was in a bad way.”

“And Ciri?”

“The girl? A bit cold and frightened, but she should live.” Lambert folded his arms over his chest. “Geralt, who are they?”

“A long story.” He’d told Vesemir - vented to him, actually - about the Child Surprise, but he had no idea if Eskel and Lambert knew. He didn’t have enough time to care. “Can I borrow your horse?”

Lambert sighed. “Sure,” he said. “But only because-” Geralt was already in the saddle, turning the horse back toward Kaer Morhen.

“If this is what you look like with feelings,” Lambert grumbled, “I miss the old Geralt.”

* * *

When he approached Kaer Morhen, the fortress was silent. He barely stopped long enough to tie Lambert’s horse to a post before racing up the steps, into the main hall. “Vesemir!” he yelled. “Eskel! Ciri!”

For a long moment, they was no reply, then someone stepped out of a hall. “Quiet,” Eskel said, “They’re resting.”

“Tell me they’re alive.”

Eskel nodded. “They are.”

Geralt leaned against the wall, the exhaustion from the past days finally catching up to him. “Where are they?”

“The west tower.” Eskel chuckled, “Vesemir thought the girl would enjoy the view.” 

“Won him over already?”

Eskel only nodded, a slight smile biting at the edge of his lips. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you.”

“I know where the west tower is.”

“You look like a breeze could knock you over.”

“You- you should probably find Lambert. I took his horse.”

A flash of sadness worked over Eskel’s features, but only for a moment. “About your mare-”

“What?” Geralt snarled, turning sharply.

“She’s seen better days. Lambert wanted to put her out of her misery, but Vesemir thought the decision should be left to you.”

His chest tightened, and he nodded roughly. “I- I’ll check on her later,” he said. Gritting his teeth, he hurried toward the west tower, up the spiral staircase to the room at the top.

 _Vesemir must really like Ciri_ , he thought, _to lug Jaskier up all these stairs_.

The ancient Witcher himself was sitting by the door, alone, his eyes closed as though resting. But as soon as Geralt reached the top of the stairs, his eyes opened. “Geralt,” he said, relief filling his voice.

“You left your patients?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, I left the girl with him, she’s to come to me if he worsens.”

Geralt chuckled. “Jaskier annoying you so much already?”

“You know,” Vesemir said, shaking his head. “I’ve never known someone to offer to write a song about stitches.”

“That would be Jaskier.”

“What happened Geralt? Why did you wait so late in the winter?”

“Cintra fell,” he said, watching the shock and horror slide over his mentor’s face. “I thought Ciri must be dead, but she found Jaskier, somehow.”

Vesemir nodded, looking thoughtful. “You should see them,” he said. “I doubt little Ciri will rest until she’s seen you - Jaskier will, but-”

“Only because you drugged him,” Geralt finished. 

The ancient Witcher gave him an innocent smile. “My hand slipped, Geralt, I didn’t mean to give him so much of the brew.”

Geralt shook his head, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

Ciri and Jaskier were both in bed. Jaskier, tucked beneath a mountain of blankets while Ciri curled up on top of them, wearing what looked suspiciously like Vesemir’s best coat.

When the door opened, she sat up. “Geralt!” she sobbed, rushing forward. He grabbed her, pulling her into his arms and lifting her off the ground.

“You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive,” he scoffed, ruffling her hair. “What do you take me for, a bard?”

She giggled. “Jaskier’s asleep.”

“With what Vesemir gave him, he’ll sleep for the next decade,” Geralt muttered, casting a glance toward the snoring figure on the bed.

“He fell off Roach,” Ciri said softly. “I thought she’d abandoned us, but Eskel said she ran here and kicked up a fuss until they came after us.”

“She’s a smart girl,” he said. “Listen, Ciri- I’m going to check on Roach-”

“I’ll go with you-”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I need you to watch Jaskier for me.” Ciri was too innocent to see such things.

After a bit more cajoling, and promising that he’d send Vesemir to sit with her, he managed to slip away.

“Ciri’s waiting for you,” he said to his mentor as he passed him. “Jaskier’s asleep.”

“Alright,” Vesemir said. “If you need-”

Geralt stopped, turning to fix Vesemir with a gaze that would have terrified lesser men. “I can kill a horse without assistance,” he said softly.

* * *

They kept the horses in an unused room off the main hall. There weren’t enough of them that it mattered, and it let the horses stay warm. The room was just far enough away that the smell rarely troubled them.

Roach was laying on the ground when he entered, and she looked up, nickering softly. Geralt knelt beside her, holding out his hand for her to sniff.

She rubbed her nose against him, then let out a loud snort.

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” he whispered.

He traced his hand over her legs, feeling the strained and swollen muscles. “Is anything broken?” he asked. She almost seemed to shake her head.

The bones were cracked, most likely, but if they hadn’t broken all the way through-

Geralt rubbed his hand over her side. “Don’t get up, you hear me?” he said softly. “Lay down for a few days. Let your legs heal.”

“She’ll never carry a rider again.” Lambert was in the door, holding the reins of his gelding.

“She doesn’t need to,” Geralt replied. “She deserves to retire.” He patted her neck, pushed himself to his feet, and said, “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother me unless Jaskier or Ciri is dying.”

“What if I’m dying?”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t fucking die.”


	7. Chapter 7

He drug a cot up to the tower, cursing at Vesesmir for having put them there, and marveling once again at how much he must have liked Ciri to have lugged Jaskier up to the top. Then he dropped the cot on the ground beside the bed and tried to sleep.

Ciri and Jaskier were both already asleep, together on the large bed, and Geralt saw no reason to wake either of them, drifting off to sleep himself.

He was startled awake by a whimper. Geralt sat up immediately, a knife finding its way into his hand, scanning the room around him, but nothing seemed amiss.

The noise sounded again and his head swirled toward it.

“G-Geralt-” Jaskier was trying to push himself up, trying to fight against whatever Vesemir had drugged him with.

Ciri moaned and swatted at him when he woke her. “Geralt-” the bard said again. “Need to find-”

“I’m here you blind fool,” Geralt snapped, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The bard’s face broke into a smile, and his face relaxed.

Ciri rolled over, pressing her face into the blankets, and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, _“Go the fuck to sleep,”_ but Geralt couldn’t be certain.

“You’re here,” Jaskier whispered. He tried to sit up, but Geralt pinned him down.

“I- I thought you’d died and- oh fuck my side hurts- Ciri, you didn’t hear that-”

“Jaskier,” Ciri groaned. “I’m _tired_.” Her whining was a painful reminder of how young she was, but it didn’t seem to work on Jaskier, who was still shifting around on the bed.

“You heard the princess’ orders,” Geralt said, letting himself drop back to the floor. “Go to sleep, bard.” 

“Geralt- are you sleeping on the floor?” Jaskier’s head appeared, peering over the side of the bed. He appeared to be considering rolling off the bed, or perhaps he was just falling.

“Don’t,” Geralt growled. “If you pull your stitches, Vesemir will give you a thrashing.” He was speaking from experience, of course, but Jaskier didn’t need to know that. Knowing the bard, it would end up in a damned song.

“He wouldn’t hit an injured man!”

Geralt snorted. “He’s more than capable of waiting.”

Jaskier eyes widened and he let out a small squeak. Somewhere out of sight, Ciri snorted. “You wouldn’t let-” Jaskier began.

“I would,” Geralt challenged. “Now go to sleep.”

Jaskier either obeyed or pretended to and soon, Geralt slipped off to bed as well.

* * *

Geralt didn’t even open his eyes. “Lambert, you wake them up and I swear I will castrate you.”

“I’m bringing breakfast, you prick.” 

He finally opened his eyes, staring blearily at the other Witcher. Lambert looked incredibly uncomfortable to be holding the tray - and not because it was heavily laden with food.

“Vesemir?” Geralt guessed.

Lambert pretended to look offended. “You think I’m incapable of deciding to do something nice for you?”

Geralt only grinned.

Lambert's scowl deepened, but he didn’t seem truly upset. “Vesemir sends his love. For Ciri, at any rate. You could probably die and he wouldn't care. I know I wouldn't.”

Geralt pushed himself up from the cot with a groan, reaching across Jaskier to give Ciri a shake. “Wake up,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes, looked at him, groaned, and hid her face in Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier moaned at the movement, opening his eyes. “Geralt,” he said. “I had a weird dream. There was this scary old man, and- I think he was going to whip me!” Jaskier sat up - or tried to - and quickly fell back with a groan. “Fuuuck,” he moaned. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“You aren’t supposed to say that in front of me,” Ciri reminded him with a grin.

Lambert gave Geralt an inquisitive look as though to say, ‘ _What are you doing with them?_ ’

Geralt only shrugged, laying the tray on the bed where Jaskier and Ciri could reach it. Then he grabbed Jaskier and pulled him into a sitting position. The bard yelped.

“Right, well, I’m going before the bard starts screaming again.” Lambert nodded brusquely and stomped off.

Ciri stared after him. “Is he always so-”

“Lambert? His one personality trait is being a prick,” Geralt replied. “But don’t let him fool you, he’s not entirely terrible.”

“Oh, so all Witchers are the same?” Jaskier’s eyes sparkled with amusement. He was entirely too gleeful by the news, and Geralt was reminded - yet again - why he’d never invited the bard to Kaer Morhen before.

“No,” said Geralt, giving Jaskier a wolfish grin. “Some of them like to thrash annoying bards.”

Ciri hid a giggle in her toast as Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, then slowly closed it again.

“Where’s Vesemir?” Ciri asked. “Why didn’t he come to see us?”

“He’s old,” Geralt said, “and doesn’t like stairs.”

Jaskier whined, “If anyone deserves a thrashing, it's you.”

Geralt considered shoving him, then thought about what Vesemir would do to him if he ripped out Jaskier’s stitches, and thought better of it. “Care to try?”

“I don’t think you’d win,” Ciri said, giving Jaskier a long look from head to toe.

“I might!”

“You really wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and his "don't swear in front of Ciri" is in for a rude awakening once he spends more than three minutes talking to Lambert lmao.


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m going to find Vesemir,” Geralt said, gathering up the now empty plates and tray.

“What about me?” asked Jaskier, trying once again to sit up in vain, then slipping back into the pillows with a groan. “Geralt, don’t-”

“Leave you,” Geralt finished for him. “I’m not going on a vacation, I’m walking out of the damned room, bard.” 

Just as he reached the door, Ciri decided to spring onto his back. He very nearly lost his footing, dropping the tray with a loud crash, and swore, grabbing for the rail. The tray and the plates - thankfully made of wood, not anything that might break - tumbled down the stairs, the resulting bangs and

“Cirilla!”

“Sorry,” she whispered, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

“Geralt?” Jaskier sounded worried, but before Geralt could assure him, the door at the bottom of the stairs opened.

“Geralt?” Vesemir was standing at the bottom of the stairs, Eskel just behind him.

“We’re fine!”

“I dropped it!” Ciri called. 

Geralt snorted, walking down the steps with her clinging to his shoulders. Thankfully, neither of them asked how someone could have dropped a tray while riding Geralt’s shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs, Ciri jumped down to help pick up the rest of the mess, piling the cups and plates back onto the tray.

“Where’s the angry one?” she asked Geralt softly.

“Where’s Lambert?” he translated.

“Fishing,” said Eskel.

Geralt took the tray from Ciri, patting her back he said, “You’ve had your fun, now go and watch Jaskier.”

She nodded and scampered off.

He looked back to his fellow Witchers. “I suppose you want the story.”

“All of it,” said Eskel.

“You said the bard was annoying,” Vesemir grumbled. “I didn’t realize how much.”

* * *

Eskel seemed a bit offended not to know about the Child Surprise. “I didn’t tell anyone damn it,” Geralt growled.

“You told me,” said Vesemir.

Geralt glared at him. “When Cintra fell, I thought Ciri must have died. But somehow-” she’d told him most of the story on their journey to Kaer Morhen “-she found Jaskier in an inn. The fool put out a contract that I thought was a trap to lure me in.”

“I know why you brought Ciri,” Eskel grumbled. “But him? Geralt, what are we going to do with a bard?”

“Lock him in the tower,” muttered Vesemir with an almost hopeful grin.

“Don’t,” advised Geralt. “He’d turn it into a sappy ballad.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “I didn’t have a choice but to bring him. If Nilfgaard learned I had Ciri- his connection to me is too well know.”

“Does Nilfgaard know you have her?”

“They shouldn’t.” He hoped they didn’t at least.

“What are you going to do with her?”

Geralt threw his arms up. “I didn’t mean to end up with a Child of Surprise!” He had briefly - very briefly - entertained the idea of offering her to Yennefer. She’d be spoiled, loved, and taken care of, he had no doubt about that. But Ciri and Jaskier would both never forgive him. Jaskier might even try to follow her, which wouldn't end well for the Sorceress or the Bard. “I don’t know, but Cintra needs-” 

“Fuck Cintra,” said Eskel. “I don’t care about them and neither do you.”

“She’s a child,” said Vesemir. “We’ll help her.”

Geralt didn’t fail to notice that neither of them mentioned Jaskier. “You don’t seem pleased at the idea.”

Eskel shrugged. “When has having children in Kaer Morhen ever ended happily for them?”

“It’s happier than the alternative,” Geralt said softly.

There was no arguing with that.

“I’m going to teach her to fight,” Geralt said, after a pause.

“What?!”

“If she has her mother’s gift- and even more so if she doesn’t- she needs to learn to protect herself.”

“We haven’t trained Witchers in too long,” Vesemir said. “because I almost told you she’s too young to fight.”

“She’s older than any of us were,” Geralt reminded him. “By a fair amount.” Then, to stop himself from having to talk anymore, he stood. “I’m going to check on them, it’s too quiet.”

“Quiet is good,” argued Eskel, although he stood as well.

“You don’t know Jaskier.”

Vesemir led them up the staircase, muttering to himself about things that would need fixed to make the tower more habitable. Geralt could already tell he - and probably Jaskier once the bard was healed - were going to get pulled into doing most of the work.

Vesemir stopped in the doorway, suddenly looking over his shoulder at Geralt with a grin.

“What?” grumbled Geralt. He caught up to Vesemir, raising an eyebrow at the sight in front of him.

“He tried to get up,” said Ciri, arms folded over her chest and a scowl on her face. She was sitting on Jaskier’s legs.

“Geralt!” said the poet, waving his good arm. “Your child is horrible!”

“Yeah,” Eskel muttered, quiet enough that the bard couldn’t hear. “He sure is.”

“I claim no responsibility for his actions,” Geralt growled softly, giving Eskel a slight.

“Is he plotting? Ciri, I don’t like that expression. Help! I’m a defenseless bard-”

“You’re a pain in my arse is what you are.” Vesemir helped Ciri off the bed, giving her a pat on the head. “Can’t wait to see the back of you, bard.”

“Geralt! Geralt tell them I’m your friend!”

“You’re a leech,” Geralt said with a grin. “A parasite that I can’t get rid of.”

“What? No, that’s Yenne- Ow!” Jaskier’s rambling were cut short as Vesemir pressed his fingers into his wounded arm.

“Yenne?” Eskel asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier’s face lit up. Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh ho!” crowed the bard. “You don’t know! Oh, boy, have I got a story!” He seemed more alive than he had been in weeks, clearly aware he had an eager audience. All signs of exhaustion seemed to melt away. 

“You said you hated Yennefer,” said Ciri.

Geralt was glaring daggers at Jaskier, who was very fortunate that looks couldn’t actually kill.

“Oh I do!” he said. “But Geralt- ah, well, what he does with her isn’t appropriate for children’s ears.”

Vesemir’s eyebrows shot up. Eskel appeared to be trying not to laugh.

“Yennefer is an acquaintance,” Geralt said through gritted teeth. “And she saved your life, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Only because you wished for me to die.”

“I wished for peace! And I’m wishing for it again!”

Eskel grabbed a chair, pulling it toward Jaskier’s bed. “Come now bard,” he said, even as Geralt tried to steer him out the door. “This seems like an excellent story. Have we got any wine, Vesemir?”

“I’m certain I could procure some,” said the ancient Witcher. “Should we send for Lambert?”

“No,” growled Geralt.

Even Ciri seemed fascinated, her eyes glowing.

Realizing he was fighting a losing battle, Geralt dropped into a chair with asigh. “Fine, but I’ll tell you when he’s lying,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t lie!” argued Jaskier. “I embellish. It’s artistic Geralt, something you could never understand, except when it came to admiring Yennefer’s cu-”

“There’s a child present!”

“Yennefer’s what?” Ciri asked innocently.

“Oh!” said Jaskier, looking more offended by the moment. “So you can say shit and fuck and damn all you like, but I can’t explain the facts of life?”

“She’s my Child Surprise,” retorted Geralt. Judging by Jaskier's face, he was considering fighting for her. 

“Do you prefer it in song or spoken word?” Jaskier asked, looking around for his lute which had been propped against a door.

“Spoken,” said Geralt.

"You have no imagination." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier was about to say “admiring Yennefer’s cunt" if anyone was wondering.
> 
> And yes, this story will have some serious parts. Eventually. Maybe.
> 
> But most importantly I want you to know that I love each and every single one of you and even if I don't reply to your comment (I try!) please know that I read it and squealed.


	9. Chapter 9

Jaskier had a very strange view of Geralt’s relationship with Yennefer, that was for sure. He found himself interrupting the bard nearly every other breath, snarling a correction.

“Geralt?” Lambert asked - they hadn’t sent for him, but he’d shown up anyway - “shut up.”

“He’s lying,” argued Geralt, waving a hand at the bard while glaring at the Witcher.

“I’m not! I’m not lying, I tell you, I don’t lie! You, on the other hand-”

Geralt fixed Jaskier with his yellow eyes. The bard didn’t even blink. “I am a master of storytelling.”

“Jaskier, you’ve not punched a single person in your entire life.”

“That’s not true!”

“And if you had punched Yennefer, you wouldn’t be sitting here today. You’d be in pieces in the bottom of a lake.”

Jaskier ignored him. “Well, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I ran out of that house as fast as my legs could carry me. I bumped into Geralt on the way, and although I tried to convince him to flee- he didn’t listen! He ran back into that house and the entire top floor exploded.”

He paused, as though waiting for a reaction. Then he let out a disappointed sigh. “Yes, well, I suppose it would be a better climax if he weren’t sitting there. Then I might be able to suspend your belief and - for a moment - convince you that he had perished, that-”

“Bard?” asked Lambert. “He ain’t dead so what are you nattering about?”

Jaskier deflated with a sigh. “I thought for certain they were dead- and I would have written the most beautiful ballad to commemorate the foolish heart of the White Wolf-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“But Chireadan went to explore the house, and then he came back- laughed at me- and dragged me to a window, and what do I see but **Geralt** and **that Witch** -” he stopped himself.

“What?” asked Ciri, hanging off Jaskier’s every word, unaware of the three Witchers shaking with silent peals of laughter behind her. Geralt just glared at them. “What were they doing?”

“Kissing,” finished Jaskier weakly.

“Eww!”

* * *

After Jaskier had finished his story - with what Ciri alone thought was a wholly unsatisfying ending - the princess demanded a tour of the fortress from Vesemir.

“What about me?” demanded the bard. “I want to go - Geralt!”

“You can’t walk,” retorted Geralt.

“You haven’t let me,” he argued.

Geralt shook his head. “Go on Ciri,” he told the girl. “I’ll keep Jaskier out of trouble.”

Ciri nodded and scampered after the other Witchers, an excited expression on her face.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

Geralt grunted. Truth be told, he didn’t mind. He was exhausted, still, from their mad dash to Kaer Morhen, and had little interest in trailing after Ciri through the fortress for the next several hours.

“Geralt, now what?”

His cat eyes flicked to Jaskier. “What?”

“I- I can’t leave, not in the winter-”

“You’ll be fine here.”

“I’m not certain they want me here.”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier, if they really didn’t want you here, Lambert would have used you for fish bait already.”

“Oh, thank you, Geralt, I feel so much better!” He rolled his eyes. 

Geralt smirked.

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, then - when Geralt was debating asking what was bothering him - he asked, “What about Ciri?”

“She’ll be safe here.”

“She’s a princess. This is-”

“A ruin,” Geralt finished. “But she’s safe.”

He stood, crossing to the window and peering out it, rubbing his sleeve over the dirt streaked glass to clear it. “Just a warning, Jaskier?” he glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Vesemir’s going to want to start fixing up this tower for Ciri.”

“I don’t see how- wait, no, is he going to make me help?” Jaskier moaned. “Does he accept moral support in the form of songs and ballads?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jaskier groaned, pushing himself up and managing to swing his feet over the edge of the bed. Geralt watched his reflection in the mirror, debating if he should intervene. But Jaskier stopped there, his feet hanging off the side, staring out the window at the snow-capped mountains. “You know,” he said. “It could almost be pretty here.”

“Almost?” Geralt asked with a grin.

A wolf howled in the distance and Jaskier shivered. “Yes, Geralt, almost.”

“You’ll heal, bard,” he promised.


	10. Chapter 10

Ciri took to Vesemir as though he was an old friend. Geralt supposed that the aged Witcher might have reminded her of Mousesack, but more than anything, it seemed Vesemir was just that impossible to not love.

Jaskier, oddly, took to Eskel, although whether Eskel was happy about it or not Geralt wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even certain he wanted them to befriend one another, both of them knew far too many stories about him, and the thought of combining that knowledge was rather unsettling.

No one really seemed to take to Lambert, but that seemed to suit him just fine.

* * *

Jaskier winced and leaned against the stair rail. “What are you doing?” he asked Eskel, tilting his head.

“Rat holes,” Eskel replied gruffly.

“Rat holes?” Jaskier repeated. He tilted his head slightly, but didn’t lean over to see it. “You’re making them or-”

“Sealing them.”

“Oh, well, Ciri ought to like that. She still thinks the rats are going to eat her boots - thanks to you - after all.”

Eskel looked up at him finally, squinting his eyes slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you fix rat holes.” He’d limped down the stairs after hearing the noise Eskel had been making, curious and bored.

“Vesemir won’t be happy.”

“Yes, well, he’s already personally threatened to lash me three times - and thats not counting the number of times you and Geralt have mentioned it. I’m starting to think you want to see me suffer.”

“Never said I didn’t.”

“And Vesemir?” Jaskier asked. “He seems like a very sweet old man- not at all the kind who-”

“Has Geralt mentioned the bumblebee?”

“The what?” Jaskier’s face contorted. “Er, no he hasn’t. Why? What about a bumblebee?”

Eskel’s lips quirked upwards. “He and I caught a fat bumblebee once, tied a string to it and attached it to a jar.”

“Lovely, simply lovely, how very- ah, weird of you.”

“Vesemir caught us. Gave us both quite the thrashing with his belt.”

Jaskier waited for a moment, certain that there would be more to the story. But Eskel remained silent. “Er… what’s the moral of that story?”

“Don’t underestimate Vesemir.”

The bard grunted, wincing as he sat down, careful not to pull his side or his arm. “So,” he asked, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. “What’s your story, Eskel.”

“I’m a Witcher,” Eskel grunted. “I kill monsters.”

“And fix rat holes?”

“And fix rat holes.”

Jaskier looked around, scanning his eyes over the dusty room. “You know, I have questions, and Geralt’s not answering them, so I’m asking you. Why is this place in ruins, Eskel, why are there only four of you, and- most importantly- why are there skeletons in the moat?” He hadn’t seen the skeletons himself, but Ciri had mentioned them. Multiple times. It seemed that it unnerved her as much as it did him.

“Kaer Morhen - the School of the Wolf - was attacked by the School of the Cat.”

“Other Witchers?! Erg.” Jaskier winced.

“Everyone who was here was slaughtered. The only ones who survived were those that were on the Path.” He leaned back on his heels, studying the frightened bard. “The skeletons are a reminder of what we lost.”

“That-” Jaskier said, shivering. “Is too horrible for a ballad.”

“Good.” He looked back at the bard, peering with eyes that were too similar to Geralt’s for comfort. “So, bard, what’s your story? Your speech and signet ring tells me you’re no peasant.”

Jaskier looked down at his hands to check that he wasn’t wearing the ring, which he usually kept stashed in the bottom of his bag. “You went through my things!”

“We didn’t know who you were. Still, don’t, as it happens.”

Jaskier shrugged. “My father is a noble lord, who bedded a princess to whom he was not engaged. The princess’ family sent the babe away to a Temple School, where it was raised in secret by the priestesses. I, of course, am the babe, and I wander the world, looking for my father whom I’ve never-

“Bard,” Eskel growled. “The truth.”

Jaskier grinned. “I only wanted to see if you were as clever as Geralt- he can always tell when I’m lying.” He sighed, drumming his hand on the stair. “My father is a lord - that much is true - but my mother was a chambermaid, not a princess. I wasn’t raised in a temple, though I did attend school there for a time. As for why I travel?” he shrugged. “My father disowned me.”

“For being a bastard?”

“No,” Jaskier said, kicking at the ground. “He caught me in bed with a man.”

“You like men?” Eskel asked. “That’s why he threw you out?”

“I like everyone!” Jaskier said excitedly, beaming. “Well, except Yennefer, I don’t like her, and I don’t like Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris. Also, I don’t like-”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, right. I’m monologuing again. You know, Geralt won’t admit it, but he likes when I do that, because then he doesn’t have to say anything.”

Eskel rolled his eyes. “I’ve got all the rat holes,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, struggling to pull himself up. “You’re not leaving me, are you? I don’t think I can walk back up all those stairs-”

“Then why did you walk down them?”

“I was bored!”

* * *

Jaskier was still sitting at the bottom of the stairs when Geralt and Ciri returned, although Eskel was nowhere in sight.

“Geralt!” he said happily, sitting up and beaming at his friend. “You’ve got to help me! I’m stuck!”

“How’d you get down here?”

“I walked.”

“Then walk back,” Geralt retorted. But he stopped as he reached Jaskier, bending to wrap an arm around him, pulling the poet to his feet. “You’re fat and heavy.”

“I am not! Ciri! I’m being bullied! Help!"


	11. Chapter 11

Ciri enjoyed her fighting lessons, Jaskier couldn’t decide if she thought it was a game or not. He would limp down and watch them from a window, bundled in a heavy blanket. Some days he would play his lute, and the other Witchers would complain (but, more often than not, he’d hear them just around the corner, as if listening).

“I’m taking Ciri out,” Geralt said, as Jaskier dropped himself into his usual chair.

The weather was clearer than it had been since their arrival - which meant there was several feet of snow on the ground, but no more falling - and it still looked terrible to Jaskier. “Well,” the bard said. “Do enjoy yourself.”

“We’ll be back before nightfall.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Jaskier said.

“What are you going to do? Rescue us?”

“Yes! And by rescue you, I mean make Eskel and Lambert find you!”

Geralt snorted. “We’ll be fine,” he promised. “I know these woods.”

Jaskier went back to his lute. He quickly became bored, however, and pushed himself to his feet, limping out into the hallway. “Eskel? Vesemir?”

He found Eskel first, standing in the main hall with a dead animal on a table in front of him. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t any sort of animal Jaskier knew. “Monster?” he guessed, wincing as Eskel cut open its stomach.

“Werewolf. Found it a few miles east.”

“Ah- hehe- that's not for eating, is it?” Jaskier winced, torn between fleeing and stepping closer. The smell was truly horrific, though, and he stayed back, one hand over his nose.

Eskel only shook his head.

“Good.” He shook his head and limped past, trying not to look at the creature any longer than he had to.

Giving up on the Witchers’ company, he went out to the stable, visiting Roach and offering her a few sugar cubes. The mare had started to recover, finally standing again, but she still seemed as stiff as Jaskier.

He stood with her for a while, talking to her and brushing her, trying not to think about how cold he was.

Then the wind picked up. Roach flicked her ears, snorting softly. Jaskier turned, scanning his surroundings to see what was happening. The wind kicked up the powdery snow, forming it into a circle in the air.

“Oh, hell no!” Jaskier hurried back toward the fortress, but quickly lost his footing on the stone steps, falling to the ground. He screamed. 

The portal finished forming, and a dark figure stepped out. They wore a long black cloak and a hood that covered their face. A white fur muff hung around their neck, and they tucked their hands away once the portal closed.

Jaskier kept screaming, certain one of the Witchers would come eventually. He tried to pull himself up the steps, but pain ripped through his side again and he curled in on himself with a grunt.

The dark figure stepped closer, until they were almost to Jaskier. “Why are you here?” grumbled Yennefer, lowering her hood.

Jaskier stopped screaming in shock. Eskel came bolting out the door of the fortress and, before Jaskier could say anything - not that he would have tried - he tossed her several feet away with the Sign of Aard.

Yennefer caught herself gracefully, her features twisting into a scowl. “Jaskier,” she snarled. “Call off your protector.”

Eskel had his sword out. “That’s Yennefer!” Jaskier said, holding out his hand. “As much as I’d like to see you stab her, I really don’t think-” he grit his teeth, hissing in pain.

Eskel knelt beside him, grabbing him and pulling him up, letting him lean against him. He didn’t sheathe his sword.

“I mean you no harm,” Yennefer promised, brushing off her cloak. “May I come in?”

The Witcher grit his teeth, then nodded, putting his sword back in it’s sheathe. He jerked his head over his shoulder. “Follow us.”

Once he was inside, no longer standing on snow and ice, Jaskier was able to walk by himself, although his side was throbbing more than it had in a few days. “Damn Witch,” he growled.

Eskel gave him a lopsided grin.

“I’m here to speak with Geralt,” Yennefer said, once they were inside.

“He’s not here,” Jaskier said softly, grateful that he’d taken Ciri out of the keep. Maybe they could just ditch her before he could back.

She blinked. “Why are you here, bard?”

“I’m a guest,” Jaskier retorted. “You’re the one who’s uninvited.”

She looked away, out a broken window, then said, “It’s about his Child Surprise.”

Eskel and Jaskier exchanged a glance. “What about her?” the bard asked softly.

“I’ll tell Geralt, not-“

“You can tell us,” Eskel said. “If it’s about Cirilla, you can trust us.”

Yennefer seemed to consider. Then she swallowed, turning to Jaskier. “I- I suppose he might take it better from you.”

“Oh no,” said the bard.

“Princess Cirilla is dead. I hadn’t worked out who the Child Surprise was in time- otherwise, I’d have gone to Cintra, but- Why are you laughing?”

Eskel and Jaskier were both doubled over, nearly sobbing from amusement. Yennefer looked as though she wanted to smite them both.

“Oh- oh Yen-“ Jaskier spluttered, clutching his wounded side. “Oh- oh ho am I enjoying this! I, Jaskier the Bard, know more than Yennefer of Vengerburg! I shall turn it into a ballad! I- I- oh fuck my side.” He wheezed, grabbing Eskel for support.

“This is no laughing matter!”

Vesemir chose that as the perfect time to make an appearance, tottering out from a side passage. He took in the scene: Yennefer, her eyes blazing with fury while Eskel and Jaskier sobbed with laughter. Then he sniffed. “Lilac and gooseberries,” he said. “You must be Yennefer.”

She turned her head to stare at him, horror still written on her features. “Where is Geralt?” she demanded.

“He’s with Ciri.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “He’s dead?”

“What?” Vesemir looked at the two laughing men, then back to the sorceress.

Jaskier wheezed, “She’s come to tell Geralt that- oh fuck, my side- Ciri’s dead!”

“She’s not been seen since the Cintran Massacre,” Yennefer said softly.

“That’s because she’s here,” Vesemir said, giving a rather amused look to Jaskier and Eskel. “I don’t know what those two are doing, come with me.”


	12. Chapter 12

Something was off.

Geralt sensed it the moment he returned to the old keep, even before he noticed that Jaskier was sitting on the stone steps, wrapped in a blanket and looking rather irritated.

He stopped, raising an eyebrow, careful not to dislodge Ciri who was almost asleep on his back.

“I said we’d be back before dusk,” Geralt growled, nodding his head toward the sky where it had only just begun to darken.

“Geralt, I tried to get rid of her,” Jaskier said, sighing. “I truly did, but, well, Vesemir’s got in his head that she’s a _lady_ \- and ooh boy did I try to correct that - but he’s even offered her a room and-”

“Who?”

“Yennefer,” spat the bard.

“What?”

“Witch. Crazy Witch. Extremely sexy, but very dangerous sorceress. Does any of this ring a bell?”

Ignoring the bard, Geralt stepped past Jaskier, heading for the door, but stopped when the bard called out.

“Geralt, oh- no! Don’t leave me! I really can’t walk Geralt! Please come back.”

“You’re fine, bard-”

“I pulled my side again when she showed up in a rather absurdly dramatic fashion and I thought I was going to die, Geralt, DIE.”

Geralt sighed and shrugged Ciri - who had woken up when they’d started talking - off his back, placing her gently on the ground. Then he helped Jaskier to stand, wrapping an arm around the poet. “Where’d they go?”

“Inside, somewhere,” the bard grumbled.

Geralt led his companions inside, Jaskier, leaning against him and wincing with every step and Ciri, half asleep, barely able to walk from exhaustion (he hadn’t meant to push her that far, but apparently he had). He could only imagine that they made quite a sight.

He followed the sound of voices and found that Vesemir was sitting in front of a roaring fire, debating the finer points of some herbal remedy with Yennefer. They seemed oddly comfortable with one another. 

“I didn’t know you did drugs, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. “Although, I can’t say I’m surprised. At least you don’t need-”

Geralt elbowed him in the stomach a moment before he could finish, the bard barely wheezing, _“contraceptives.”_ Thankfully his voice was quiet enough that Geralt barely heard it, so he could only hope Yennefer hadn’t.

If she had, her face didn’t reveal it. She was too focused on Ciri. The sorceress moved as though in a haze, sitting aside the glass she’d been holding, stepping toward the child with wide eyes. “Cirilla?” she asked.

Ciri’s eyes flicked first to Geralt, then to Jaskier (who was still struggling to catch his breath), and finally to Yennefer. “Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

Yennefer moved like someone in a dream, kneeling in front of Ciri and smiling at her, her eyes widening. “You- you’re alive,” she said in disbelief, touching a gloved hand to Ciri’s cheek.

“Yes.” Ciri smiled, as if she had an innate understanding of Yennefer’s feelings, and why the sorceress was so enthralled by her. “I’m alive.”

Deciding to give the two a moment, Geralt helped Jaskier to a chair, dropping the bard where he (hopefully) couldn’t cause much trouble.

“You left out exactly how charming she could be, bard,” scolded Vesemir, looking cheered.

“Oh yes,” Jaskier said dryly, “I’ll remember that, the next time she’s naked, painting an amphora on her chest, and holding a knife to my throat.”

“Oh, are you still going on about that?” Yennefer asked.

“Yes, yes I am and- Cirilla! What are you doing?!” Jaskier tried to push himself out of the chair, looking rather incensed that Ciri had accepted a hug from the sorceress, then moaned and fell back with a whine.

Ciri broke away from Yennefer to rush to the bard’s side. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” replied Geralt with a shake of his head. “Just being difficult.”

“No!” snapped Jaskier, pulling Ciri into the chair beside him protectively. “I’m being perfectly reasonable. Haven’t you noticed that whenever she shows up, something horrible happens?”

“Like excessive kissing?” teased Ciri. She seemed happy to be curled against Jaskier, most likely because she was still half-frozen from traveling in the snow all day.

“And worse,” grumbled Jaskier. He looked rather proud of himself for having gotten Ciri away from Yennefer so easily.

Speaking of the sorceress- “Geralt,” Yennefer interrupted, “what I’ve not been told, is how is she here?”

“I found her!” Jaskier shouted.

“I found you,” corrected Ciri.

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “And why is the bard wheezing?”

Jaskier’s breathing had been somewhat uneven since Geralt and Ciri’s return, but he’d just chalked that up to the bard being needy.

“Have you ripped your stitches?” asked Vesemir, looking slightly irritated.

“If I have, it’s her fault!” Jaskier snapped, pointing at Yennefer. “I thought I was under attack when she whooshed in here, all high cheekbones and curls and- what am I saying? Oh, right. My side hurts and if anyone deserves a thrashing, it’s **her**.” 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a reply,” said Yennefer.

“Ciri, see if he’s bleeding, would you dear?”

Ciri obediently pulled up Jaskier’s shirt and - to Geralt’s relief (not that he let it show) - the skin wasn’t torn, only inflamed.

Yennefer tiled her head. “Monster attack?”

“Yes! I fought off-”

“Wolves,” Geralt interrupted.

“A hundred of them!”

“Barely two dozen.”

“He was very brave,” Ciri argued. “It’s not his fault he can’t fight, Geralt! You’ve known him for years, you should have taught him something.”

Jaskier chortled and Geralt gaped at her. “Yes!” cried the bard. “Entirely your fault, Geralt! Oh, this is going to be in a ballad for sure! The White Wolf, being told off by a child! Oh ho!”

“Fine,” Geralt snarled. “You can start training with us tomorrow.”

“I- What? No! That’s not what I- shit.” Rather belatedly, he covered Ciri’s ears. “You didn’t hear that.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviewers: I can’t wait to see what you have planned!!
> 
> Me: I’m honored that you think I have any idea what I’m doing.

Ciri and Jaskier still huddled together in the same bed most nights.

Neither of them was meant for the cold of Kaer Morhen, and even with the windows covered by tapestries and a fire in the hearth, the tower room was too cold for either of them. Perhaps one of the rooms at the bottom of the keep, partially (or fully) underground would have been better insulated, but no one cared enough to go find a room that was useable. So although there were two beds in the tower room, they usually ended up curled together with a bed warmer filled with warm rocks at their feet. 

The Western tower was easily accessible from the hall where the Witchers had their rooms, which made it even more favorable. _Defensible_ , Geralt would say (to which Jaskier would demand to know what he was planning to have to defend them from).

“Jaskier, I’m cold,” Ciri said, pulling the blankets more firmly around herself.

The bard was still pacing the room, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath about witches and whores, hoping he was quiet enough that Ciri couldn’t hear him. They'd left Yennefer and Geralt to talk - and really, he doubted much speech was going to happen - and everyone had gone to bed. But as tired as he was, he couldn't sleep. He was starting to see why Geralt had wanted a Djinn.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“One moment,” he said. The bard shifted aside one of the tapestries, peering outside into the swirling snowstorm. Wolves - which he was beginning to learn lived in large numbers around the keep - howled in the distance. “I really hate wolves,” he grumbled to himself. Ciri didn’t reply, probably too busy shivering and sulking.

He crossed to the fire, adding a few more logs, then turned around to tell Ciri he was ready for bed.

But she wasn’t there.

The princess and her favorite blanket - a bright blue one that was barely a lap blanket on the Witchers, but covered her almost from head to toe - were both gone. “Shit,” Jaskier moaned.

He limped to the staircase, wincing with every step, hurrying down the spiral. Most likely she’d gone in search of Geralt - who she claimed was much warmer to cuddle with - but he could only imagine what the Witcher was doing since his reunion with Yennefer a few hours previously. At the bottom of the stairs he turned and hurried down the hall the Witcher’s bedrooms were on, carefully avoiding the large hole in the floor that opened up to the main room below.

She was standing in the middle of the hall, the blanket hanging off her shoulders, wearing a thick woolen pair of socks that Vesemir had ‘borrowed’ for her from Lambert. She looked almost traumatized, her eyes wide.

“Jaskier,” she whispered. “When you said they were _kissing_ after the djinn, did you mean to say _fucking_?”

“Where did you hear about fucking?” he whispered back, trying not to wake the Witchers.

“I’m fourteen!” she hissed.

Jaskier opened his mouth to retort that she was still too young, remembered what he’d been up to at fourteen, and closed his mouth.

“I think they’re fucking now,” she said, chewing her lip.

“Er- why do you say that?”

She pulled a face. “There’s a hole in the wall by the door.”

“Oh.”

There was a creak from Geralt’s room - something that sounded like a giggle - and then Lambert’s voice called out “oh fuck off!”

“Let’s go,” Jaskier said.

Together they hurried back to the tower, although Ciri had to wait and let Jaskier catch up on the stairs, still wincing with every step. “How are you supposed to learn to sword fight tomorrow?” she asked.

“I’m not,” Jaskier snapped. “I’m staying in bed and no amount of threats from Vesemir is changing that.” Geralt had looked far too gleeful at the idea of teaching him to fight, so he had an idea that most of it was just going to comprise of him laying on the ground and moaning in pain. Quality entertainment for the Witchers, at least.

Jaskier limped to the fireplace, carefully using tongs to transfer the row of stones that sat on the hearth into the metal bedwarmer which he tucked into the bottom of the bed.

Ciri perched on the bed, watching him curiously. “Is a womanizer different from a whore?” she asked suddenly.

Jaskier blinked. “Uh….”

“Yennefer called you a womanizer.”

“What? When?”

“When you were arguing with Lambert about which window to throw her out of.” She tilted her head. “Are you?”

“Am I a _whore_?”

“Or a womanizer.”

He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with a fourteen-year-old. “I- I- does it matter?”

She shrugged. “I’m just curious. Eskel said you’re a bastard. Did he mean that literally?”

The bard blinked, unable to keep up with the rapidly changing conversation. “Are you going to tell me all the names people have been calling me behind my back?”

“If it makes you feel any better, Geralt punched Eskel.”

It did make him feel a bit better. “Did he punch Yennefer?”

“No.”

“Damn.” Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed beside her, rubbing his eyes with his palms. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him, but Ciri was still peering at him curiously. “Is this because of what I said to people before?”

“About us being married?” she shrugged. “I wondered why people were so willing to believe it.”

“I don’t fuck children. Or teenagers.”

“I know.” She studied him with eyes that were far too worn for someone her age. “But some people do.”

“Did- did something happen before I found you?” He’d never thought to ask, and suddenly worry twisted in his stomach.

“Nothing like that,” she said softly. “I just-” she sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Ciri sighed, then mumbled, “I’m not tired.”

“You want to talk?” Jaskier guessed. “Is that why you were looking for Geralt? I’m right here- you can _talk to me_ , Ciri.”

She nodded. “Have you seen the flyers?” When Jaskier shook his head, she continued, “Geralt says there used to be hundreds of them, leftover from the massacre. I found one yesterday. We- ah Geralt didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m _guessing_ that the flyers were left by the attackers?”

Another nod. “It’s full of lies, Jaskier! About how awful Witchers are, and that they should all be slaughtered. I- I just- how could anyone hate Witchers?”

“I guess all they’ve met is Lambert.”

Ciri snorted. “He’s awful.” Then she grinned. “I like him.”

“Have you ever met a single person you didn’t like?”

Her face darkened. “One,” she said softly. “He- he was hunting me in Cintra.”

“I-” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck. “I- uh- I’m not really good at this,” he said. “You know- _children_. Not telling raunchy jokes. Giving life advice. I mean- I _can_ give advice- and I _do_ \- but - ah, well, my ideas tend to end horribly. Just ask Geralt.”

“Eskel’s jokes are funnier anyway,” she said, “and _much_ more inappropriate.”

“That’s only because you’ve not heard the good ones!” Jaskier argued. “Uh, not that I’m telling them to you.”

“Jaskier,” she said, giving him a playful glare. “I’m not a _baby_.”

They sat for several minutes without speaking, each lost in thought. Finally, unable to take the silence anymore, Jaskier said, “To answer your earlier question, a whore is not a womanizer, and I am neither.” He still couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with her, but if it kept her from looking for Geralt again, it would be worth it.

She looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The bed seemed to be mocking him. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and sleep. Instead, he found himself saying, “A whore sleeps with people for money. A womanizer targets young virgins. I am-”

“A hopeless romantic?”

“Who said that?”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier snorted. “Alright,” he said. “Fess up. I want to hear everything these assholes have to say about me.”

“They like you!”

“They like teasing me, Ciri. That’s entirely different.”

For a moment she seemed to be quiet, and he thought that he would finally be able to go to sleep. But just as he was about to crawl under the covers she asked, “Are you a bastard?”

Jaskier froze. “I- uh-”

“Grandmama said that bastards don’t place in society,” Ciri said softly. 

“What does Ciri think?” He couldn’t look back, couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t see the judgment and condemnation he was used to.

“Geralt said I’m a spoiled brat who doesn’t understand how the world works.” 

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, glancing over at her. “When did he say that?”

“I skinned my knee and called him a stupid peasant when he laughed at me.”

“And how oh how did the mighty wolf take that?”

Even in the low light, he could see her face turn red. “He said if I didn’t stop acting rotten he’d put me over his knee.” She scowled. “Can he _do_ that? I- I- It’s not fair!”

“Oh, but it’s funny when they’re threatening _me_?”

“You’re an adult,” she muttered. “I doubt they’d actually whip you.”

He grunted and fell into the pillows head first. “I will happily continue this discussion tomorrow, princess,” he said, his voice muffled.

After a few minutes, he felt Ciri curl up beside him, leaning into him for warmth.

He was nearly asleep when she whispered, “I don’t care if you’re a bastard.”

“Ciri?” Jaskier mumbled into his pillow. “Go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Calanthe have a great pro-abortion discussion in The Sword of Destiny (around page 345), but Calanthe is nutty enough that I could see her being like “well women should just get rid of bastards.” She’s certainly very opinionated and more than a bit callous. 
> 
> And Ciri getting mad and calling Geralt a stupid peasant is also straight out of the books (although she was younger when that happened). I still think she’s pretty prone to letting her temper flare and just speaking without thinking. 
> 
> This has been the most challenging chapter yet, so I hope you like it.


	14. Chapter 14

Geralt’s cat eyes shifted over the table uneasily. He didn’t know what to make of the scene. It seemed far too…. Domestic.

Yennefer was having some sort of conversation (Debate? Counsel? He’s not certain what to call it) with Vesemir on the subject of herbs, magical properties, and things he can’t even being to comprehend.

Jaskier was standing on a table and holding an impromptu music concert, which had Ciri completely enraptured, while Eskel watched with a grin and Lambert periodically threw small bits of rubble and debris (but he didn’t hit the bard or the lute, not since Geralt had growled at him for catching Jaskier’s shoulder with a pebble).

The strangest part, however, was that Ciri’s head was in his lap, and he found he didn’t mind.

“Geralt?” he ripped his eyes away from Jaskier, glancing down at Ciri with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, Ciri?”

“What now?”

He thought about it for a moment, picturing the scene in front of him.

Yennefer wouldn’t stay long, he was certain of that. She was already whining - albeit in a forced manner - about being stolen from her shop in Vengerburg and how she needed to return.

Jaskier - the bard would get bored eventually, Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he’d left in the spring. He would come back though (and if he didn’t, Geralt would find him, one way or another).

As for the Witchers - well, they would always return to Kaer Morhen.

He smiled, running his fingers through her hair. “Our future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it’s mostly over, since they’re all reunited and such, buttttt there will be plenty more one shots that I’ll be posting in the series. I have plenty of ideas for this, don’t worry.
> 
> < a href="https://sunflowersupremes.tumblr.com/post/190348323759/wow-rewriting-the-whole-books-series-for-the">See this post on my tumblr for a bit more about where I’m planning to go with this.
> 
> Thank you all so much for everything! Your love and support of this story have meant the world to me!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to [Follow me on Tumblr](https://sunflowersupremes.tumblr.com/). I accept prompts, fangirling, and accusations of character abuse. 
> 
> All content related to The Child Surprise can be found [here](https://sunflowersupremes.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-the-child-surprise)


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